


Through The Cracks

by ItsaVikingThing



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: An idea I needed out of my head, F/F, FBI!Rachel, Murder Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-29
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2019-06-18 05:57:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15479124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsaVikingThing/pseuds/ItsaVikingThing
Summary: Rachel Amber is a junior FBI agent working her first big case: investigating a kidnapping ring. But when a person of interest in the case turns up dead, it begins a chain of events that will lead Rachel into the darkest moments of her past and towards truths a lot of people would prefer stayed buried...





	Through The Cracks

Rachel Amber makes it out into the parking lot before she throws up.

She's enough of an optimist that she can take pride in the fact that she didn't contaminate the crime scene she's supposed to be investigating. She's enough of a realist to know that her continued participation in this, her first real case as an FBI agent, is going to end as soon as she stops vomiting and starts talking.

She's almost angry enough to pretend that she isn't terrified.

There comes the sound of black wingtips striding across the asphalt towards her. Rachel spits, trying to clear her mouth, then straightens up. She had enough presence of mind to hold her hair back, so she's got the whole not having puke in her hair thing going for her tonight, if little else.

Her partner, Special Agent Darren Wallis, stops in front of her, holding out his handkerchief. "Here. Give yourself a minute."

Rachel accepts the handkerchief and wipes her mouth and chin. She appreciates the square of cloth more than Wallis trying to use his bulk to obstruct her from the view of the local uniforms. She can handle their derision. 

Rachel says, "Oh, I'm fine! Luckily I didn't have much dignity to lose in the eyes of the Brownsville PD." She waves the handkerchief, and puts a wry smile on her face. "I'll just...hold onto this. Launder it and get it back to you."

"Yeah, do that." Wallis snorts. "Look, shit like this happens. It's your first body, and it's...messy. You don't have to prove how tough you are to me. But I would like to get back to working this, if you think you can handle that?"

"Well..." Rachel looks down at her hands as she carefully folds the handkerchief and tucks it into her jacket pocket. She looks up at Wallis, and lets the smile die. "It's not my first body, and the mess didn't upset my stomach. We knew Rawlins was a false identity our guy was using, but seeing him...I think I know who that...was."

Wallis raises his eyebrows. "No shit? Our scumbag was a friend of yours?"

"Oh, he was very friendly," Rachel says, her stomach clenching again. She rides it out, buying herself another few seconds by fumbling a breath mint from her other pocket into her mouth. "If it's who I'm thinking of. But I'll need to take another look, to be sure."

She is sure, or at least, she was, which is why her stomach betrayed her in the first place. But it's so fucking surreal, so _impossible_ , that she needs another look to confirm it. But more than that, she needs to go back, she needs to prove that she's tougher than this moment.

Wallis studies her, lips pursed as he tries to get a read on her. 

Rachel offers him a bright smile and a chipper, "Shall we?"

He grunts, his grey eyes uncertain. "After you."

Rachel strides across the motel parking lot, back to room 8, back to the dead man.

The Brownsville PD sergeant, a grizzled fifty-something, casually intercepts her before she can get too near the crime scene. "Everything alright, agents?"

Wallis, who is ten years younger, three inches taller, ten or so pounds lighter by dint of his athleticism, says, "Sure. We're going back in now."

Fletcher puts his hands on his hips. "I thought you said you were here for a kidnapping? This is a murder. You decide it doesn't interest you, we've still got to try and clear it."

Wallis smiles. "I'm sure a detective will handle that for you. And this guy was a POI in our case, which happens to be cracking a kidnapping ring. One which has a few murders asssociated with it. So if you're done looking tough for the local boys...move."

Rachel rolls her eyes behind Wallis' back, then positions herself between the two men. "My stomach's empty, Sergeant Fletcher. It's going to be difficult for me to mess up the scene. It's also the last time I let this guy order dinner for me." She jabs a thumb at Wallis, and quirks her lips at Fletcher. In a lower voice, she adds, "If I didn't think I could handle going back in, I wouldn't. This is about the investigation, not my pride."

Fletcher studies Rachel intently. "...okay." 

He gets out of their way. Before she crosses the threshold into the murder room, Rachel looks back to find Fletcher standing out there in the night, under the light of the Motel's neon signage, frowning at her.

* * *

The smell isn't fun, and her stomach protests again, but Rachel has it locked down. Now it's just her knees and her heart and the sweat trapped between her palms and the latex of her gloves that she needs to deal with.

The room itself isn't messy. No forced entry, no signs of a struggle. The bedroom is empty, apart from a few items of luggage and a suit jacket on the back of the room's single chair. The bathroom is where it happened; more specifically, the man Rachel and Wallis have been hunting, Mitchell Rawlins, was killed in the bathtub.

Rachel takes a deep breath before she steps into the bathroom. Wallis hovers in the doorway behind her, arms folded, careful not to touch anything.

Rachel looks at the body in the tub. Cause of death appears to be a single gunshot wound to the forehead, delivered close enough to leave powder burns on Rawlin's skin. It's not his only wound, though. He's wearing a shirt, but it's a shredded, bloody mess, much like the torso beneath. Someone tortured him before they finished him, and, judging by the gag in his mouth, it wasn't for information.

Rachel forces herself to look at it all, to take in the details she didn't have time to notice on her first look. Then she carefully examines his face. It's been almost a decade since she last saw him. The beard is gone, the face is thinner, and the hair is the perfect black that only hair dye can provide. Blood masks his face, and the bullet wound and death has altered the shape of it, but she knows him.

Behind her, Wallis says, "Well?"

"It's him," Rachel says, in a weak voice, and she feels a flood of anger at that weakness. She turns to Wallis. "His name's Mark Jefferson. He has a history of drugging and kidnapping young women. Killed at least one, that we know of. He should be in prison."

"Holy shit," Wallis says, staring at her. "Are you sure-"

"Yes. He was my photography teacher. And I was one of the girls on his to do list. But he was arrested before that could happen, along with his accomplice, Nathan Prescott."

" _Prescott_? As in the fucking _governer_?" Wallis gapes at her. "Rachel...shit!"

She nods. "You'll have a lot of questions, I know, but the short version is that I haven't seen Jefferson in about eight years. I thought he was still in prison, until ten minutes ago. And...now you need me to leave the scene."

Wallis rubs his face. "Yeah. I do. In fact...I'm going to need to make some calls."

"I figured." Rachel smiles tightly. "Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to try and throw up some more. Let me know when you need to interview me."

She brushes past him, and goes back out into the darkness.

* * *

Fletcher finds her leaning against her Bureau ride and sucking on the end of her pen. Her gloves are gone, and her skin is dry again. She takes the pen out of her mouth, but she doesn't try to smile. She just nods. "Sergeant."

He fishes a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, and offers it to her. "Wanna real one?"

Yes. "No, thanks. I don't intend to be a quitter when it comes to quitting."

Fletcher chuckles. "Mind if I...?"

Oh, god, _yes_ , she minds. Even if it isn't nicotine she really craves, she doesn't want to have to smell cigarette smoke. "Not at all. I don't think I can help you, though, Sergeant. You'll need to talk to Wallis."

He lights up and takes a drag before he answers. "I'm not looking for help. And he's kind of an asshole, so..."

Rachel raises an eyebrow, but she doesn't push harder than that.

Fletcher shakes his head. "You look too young to be in this job. And way too pretty. It's like someone hired you specifically so they could put you on a recruiting poster."

"Well, that's maybe the nicest backhanded compliment I've ever been paid."

He laughs. "Okay, so, I'm kind of an asshole, too. Ah, shit, I know what I thought when I saw you throwing up, and I should frankly be pissed at the way you handled me back there, but you're not what I...you've got _something_." 

He studies her, frowning, and Rachel feels a stirring in her gut that has nothing to do with nausea. Fletcher has...information, maybe. She's curious, but decides that she won't push. She quietly waits him out.

After a few seconds, he mutters, "Yeah...there it is." He takes in a lungful of smoke, then sighs it out. "So I'm going to tell you a story. Because...well, you'll see."

Rachel nods, keeping her expression attentive and earnest.

"About four years ago, almost to the day, we busted a murderer. Richard Jarrett. This asshole was just a blip on the national news...he killed two middle-aged bachelors, a few months apart. Serial pathology, apparently, but he didn't make it to that third kill. Didn't get that infamy. You hear about this at all?"

Rachel shakes her head. "I was still in college four years ago. Out of state."

"Right. So the way it went down, he was laying out the remains of his second victim, in some woods about a mile from here, when a young woman stumbles on the scene. The killer flees, the girl calls it in, we get there too late for the vic, but...we catch a break. A big one. This guy is sloppy enough to leave behind an information sheet from the motel he was staying in when he fled. You know, a piece of laminated card with the desk clerk's number, check out times, shit like that printed on it?"

And suddenly, Rachel knows where this story is going. But she decides to prompt Fletcher, rather than pre-empt him. "That is...quite the piece of evidence to drop."

"Right?" Fletcher grimaces. "We almost missed him, though. We caught him right as he was walking out the door, damp from a shower and ready to flee. If it wasn't for that pamphlet, we wouldn't have caught him. And you know what? His prints were on it, which connected him to the scene, too. We arrested him, got a warrant for his place, found...trophies. Found a murder weapon...everything we needed to put that fucker away."

"But?"

"Well, I'm no detective, but it seemed kinda...odd that this guy would put something like that in his pocket before he went to dump a body. And he swore he'd never touched it, said he was being set up. But...his prints were on the card. We found a partial of his on the body, too, and that was that. Jarrett was the killer, no doubt in my mind, but...it was weird, the way it played out. Didn't sit right with me. And now this shit tonight?"

Rachel asks the question, even though she already knows the answer. "So...where was Jarrett staying?"

Fletcher nods. "Room 8 of this very establishment. Same as tub guy. Hell of a coincidence, huh?"

Coincidences do happen...but Fletcher clearly doesn't believe that this is one, and neither does Rachel. For a few moments, Rachel thinks about it. She starts listing questions, thinking about what files she should pull, treating it like a lead she needs to run down. Then she remembers that this is not really her case anymore.

The upshot of Wallis' calls about the Jefferson development are that Rachel's likely going to be enjoying some time off in the near future. Jefferson opens up new angles of investigation that Rachel's past would...complicate. Someone is going to have to speak with Governer Sean Prescott. That someone cannot be her. 

Rachel is not being officially reassigned, not yet, but she is going to be hands off this case for the time being.

She lets none of her frustration show on her face. She nods at Fletcher, giving him an appreciative smile. "Thanks for the story. Any thoughts on what it might mean?"

He snorts. "Isn't figuring out weird crap your job, FBI?" When Rachel rolls her eyes at him, he laughs. "I wish I could tell you what it means, if it means anything, but I don't know. Jarrett was a loner. Plenty of people hated him, after it all came out, but he's still in prison. I don't think we'll get any helpful witnesses this time, either."

"Was the room number public knowledge?"

"Yeah...maybe. Local news covered the story, and the motel was filmed, photographed. We didn't release the room number, but I'm sure the motel clerk did, to anyone who'd listen. Can't remember if it made into print, but that's something you can check, right? If you're interested..."

Something in the way his face shifts, in the way he trails off, makes Rachel shunt aside her self-pity and sharpen her focus. "You think of something?"

Fletcher starts. He buys himself a few seconds taking in another lungful of smoke. "Oh! No, I...not really. Just...thinking about the witness in the Jarrett case. Doesn't matter!"

Rachel makes her tone stern and deepens her voice. "I'm FBI. _I_ will decide what matters!"

Fletcher gives her a flat look. "Really?"

"Nah, but you've got me curious," Rachel lies casually. "What was she like?"

He takes his time finishing his cigarette and grinding the butt out beneath his scuffed shoe. Rachel thinks he is going to walk away, but he doesn't. He sighs. "Nice. She was...nice. Quiet. Polite. Early twenties, but looked more like a kid. Small, y'know? I guess, though...she was calm. I mean, she didn't seem happy to be talking to the police about a murder, but given that Jarrett could've turned on her instead of running...yeah, she was calm. Brave. And a good witness, too."

"Did she testify?"

He nods. "She wasn't thrilled about it. Not that she complained, but she seemed...reluctant. She had to come back here from out of state, after all. But she did. And she helped nail the bastard. Her testimony about what she saw at the scene helped the jury get over any doubts Jarret's public defender tried to raise about the card being dropped at the scene. "

"As opposed to planted? Asshole."

Fletcher snorts. "He's my cousin."

Rachel squints at him. "Seriously?"

"Yeah." Fletcher grins. "And he _is_ an asshole, so don't sweat it."

Rachel chuckles. She's too busy thinking for it to be anything other than a polite laugh, and too ingrained in the art of being likeable to let Fletcher think that it's anything other than genuine. "So what was she doing here, if she was from out of state? Does she have family in the area?"

"Huh? Oh. No. She was a photography student, working some kind of project. That's why she was out in the woods that night. She didn't get any pictures of Jarrett. We weren't _that_ lucky. But she didn't take any shots of the scene either. Which plenty of other people would have. Like I say, she was a nice kid."

Rachel doesn't doubt it. And she doesn't doubt that this girl was caught up in all this by chance. But...instinct tells her that there's something here, that this is no mere coincidence, and it might be a good idea to suggest to Wallis that he send someone to interview her. Rachel considers asking Fletcher for the girl's details, but decides against it. Dragging a young woman he admires into a fresh murder investigation could easily turn Fletcher against her, and Wallis might need him down the road.

Besides, she can find what she needs through the police files or court records easily enough.

Instead she asks, "Anything else spring to mind?"

Fletcher shakes his head. "Nope. It's not much more than a feeling, but..."

"I hear you." Rachel pulls one of her cards out of her pocket and passes it to Fletcher. "Thanks for telling me all that, sergeant. It mostly raises questions, but they're questions we might not have thought to ask. It's appreciated."

"I'll be sure to call you if I solve the whole thing." Fletcher tucks the card into his wallet. He sighs again. "I better get back to it. Stay safe, agent."

Rachel smiles, meaning it this time. "You, too."

With nothing else to do but wait for Wallis to finish up, Rachel digs out her phone and googles Richard Jarrett. She finds quite a few hits, mostly articles by papers she's never heard of covering his arrest and the subsequent trial. Rachel starts reading through them, in case anything interesting leaps out.

Something does. A familiar name springs out at her and punches her in her still tender gut.

The photographer, Fletcher's witness, is a woman called Maxine Caulfield.

Rachel's knuckles whiten around her phone as her mind races.

Rachel never met her, but there was a Maxine Caulfield who lived in a town called Arcadia Bay, years ago. That Maxine Caulfield left when she was thirteen, but she came back just after Rachel moved, when Maxine was eighteen, to study photography at Blackwell Academy.

The same school Rachel attended. The school where Mark Jefferson taught photography. Maxine Caulfield was a budding photographer, too. Rachel knows, because Maxine Caulfield was the childhood best friend of Rachel's ex-girlfriend, Chloe Price.

The age, the interest in photography, even the physical details that Fletcher mentioned all fit with what Rachel remembers Chloe telling her about Maxine over the years. And if this is the same Maxine Caulfield...Rachel has a lead that connects the two cases.

"Maxine Caulfield," Rachel mutters. "Hell of a coincidence."

She looks up in time to see Wallis walking towards her, expression grim. "Rachel...I'm going to be here awhile. You should probably go back to the hotel. I'll catch a ride with one of the officers later."

Rachel nods. She pockets her phone. "Hey...Fletcher told me they arrested a killer in that same room a few years back. Richard Jarrett. Might be nothing, but..."

Wallis' expression shifts. "Worth a look. Thanks, Rachel...I, uh, need to get back to it. Unless there's anything else?"

She thinks about the next week that she's supposed to be doing nothing in, because Mark Jefferson came out of her past to try to claim her one last time. She thinks about Maxine Caulfield, and if it is _the_ Maxine Caulfield, what she might know. Wallis needs to know about that link.

"No," Rachel says, calmly. "I'll let you get to it. I think I'm going to plan a trip. Visit Portland, take my mind off things."

"Good idea," Wallis says absently, already turning away. He pauses. "Why Portland?"

Rachel smiles. "I'm going to go catch up with an old friend."

Because if Rachel's going to get to Maxine Caulfield without alerting anyone at the FBI, then she's going to need the help of Chloe Price.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I've had ideas for this story rattling around in my brain for months, and it was getting much too noisy. I've written this to try to shut my brain up for a bit because I have other things I need to write right now. So...fair warning this is another of those things that won't see much progression for the foreseeable.
> 
> That said, I'd greatly welcome any thoughts you'd like to share in the comments!


End file.
